The Devils' Hand
by YourDarkMistress
Summary: Only after the destruction of his world did James finally realize he no longer held the winning hand. The Devil deals the cards now, and the Devil cheats.
1. The Hand

Disclaimer: I dont own Star Trek. Why would I? Star Trek and its characters do not belong to me, it belongs to...whoever it is that own it. (Not me)

The Devils' Hand

Having been surrounded by death for nearly two years, James Tiberius Kirk had believed himself numb to what had seemed like the most natural thing in existence. The unintentional falsehood of this statement only now began to rear its ugly head. Twin trails of moisture ran down his cheeks like raindrops down a glass window. Now, he thought, he truly was alone. All he had known had fallen through his fingers like sand slips through the nozzle of the hourglass; with a quiet taunting apathy.

In all honesty, he had expected it to end this way; his heart a shattered glass orb in the wake of the deaths of those he had loved, his spirit broken beyond repair. What he hadn't expected was the small sentient being that would keep him from ending his life with the revolver bullet tied around his neck.

He looked at her and smiled a small, sad, Un-Kirkian smile. Her blond curls framed her small, pudgy face, her green eyes shining like stars. The redness of her cheeks and nose alerted him to the fever she was fighting almost as much as the high temperature of her flesh. He could see his face mirrored in her infantile features, though he knew very well they shared no relation. She had done nothing to deserve the quiet vigil he kept over her defenseless form.

And for this he hated her. He hated her with all his heart for keeping him attached to the world of the living. Hated her for making him love her so much. James hated the little girl who shared his name with all his heart and soul, and as much as it hurt, he would never forgive her for that which she had no control over.

He shook his head as if to rid his mind of the poisonous thoughts and continued walking. He had been walking for so long he had lost count of both the miles he had crossed and the amount of time it had taken to do so. 'Only a few more miles' had become the mantra that kept his feet moving. He had to get back. Had to protect, to save, to preserve all that was left of them...

The little girl yawned, and stretched her hand out, placing her minute hand on his index finger. She was so tiny, he noted, that if he truly desired, he could snuff the life right out of her, -end it for both of them, hand them over to a higher power- but quickly banished the thought from his consciousness. As much as he would hate Jamie, he would never be able to hurt her. He loved her too much. He lifted her small hand with his finger, and placed a tentative kiss on her knuckles. She yawned again, and snuggled closer to the warmth his body so willingly provided.

In the wake of the destruction of his world, a flower bloomed.

A/N: Hello World! If you were terribly confised by this, I apoligise. This is my very first published Fanfiction, and it its a part of a much bigger story I'm writing. I kind of need some help though. The story contains a Romulan OC, and I can't seem to find out anywhere if Romulans are touch telepaths. If you know, please tell me!


	2. The Head

The Head (and it's sheer stupidity)

He pressed his foot into the shoulder of his shovel with as much ferocity as humanly possible. The skin on his arch was red and bloody, and he had been digging for nearly six hours, yet he continued to submit himself to the physical and psychological torture.

He wiped the sweat off his brow with his wrist before dumping a spade full of soil onto the pile that had been building up over the last few hours. Seven feet across and four feet tall, Kirk was sure it was the most ground he had unearthed in one session. Then again, it was also the most bodies he had to dig for in one session. Saliva thick in his mouth, he shoved the tool into the ground. Seven headstones. Seven nameless headstones with only numbers and symbols to identify the graves they would mark.

The sun beat down on the top of the hill with an intensity Jim had not noticed before. It seemed now that everything was wrong. The Tarsus sun was hot on his face and convection currents flowed through the air in visible pulses. The sky was grey rather then its usual purplish, and the contrast it posed to just four days ago was startling. From the peak of gossamer hill, Jim could see that the city below still burned, but no longer with the fury it once did.

A drop of water landed on his forehead.

Kirk looked up and blinked. Sunrain. He had only minutes before the 'clouds' opened up and his holes would be filled with acid precipitation. He sighed and let his gaze drift to the corpses of the men, women, and children who had become his family over the past few years. Seven bodies, plus the four for whom there were no bodies to bury. He stuck his hands under his belt and turned on his heels. As much as he wanted to just drag the bodies into the holes, cover them up and be done, he could not. There were standards to keep; standards that had been decided upon way back at the beginning, before people started dying. It had been a unanimous decision; to give death a standard procedure. It was logical that people stay detached from corpses, so they would not be compromised by their emotions and rendered incapable of work. So they make a simple, 5-step, ordered procedure that allowed participants to simply run through the motions without really accepting that those they cared about were forever gone, and allowing a quick severance of bonds formed between people.

They were as follows:

Step 1: Dig a grave.

Done and done. It took him two days, but it was done.

Step 2: Lay the bodies next to the grave.

Also done. Kirk grimaced as he saw them in his minds eyes. For once, he actually wished that the bodies had been reduced to ash. His best friend was next to one of those graves, and putting him in a hole and covering him with dirt was akin to 'letting go'.

He did not want to let go.

Step 3: Gather the rest of the survivors for the death ceremony.

Which was what he was preparing to do. Rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand, Kirk wished he could remember. Already, mere days after their murders, the voices of his loved ones were beginning to fade. he knew that after the burial, their faces would fade as well. Jim desperately did not want to forget. He himself knew what a fading memory could do to a person; he had witnessed it first hand. He could remember so clearly the day he had walked in on his mother as she wept. She wept the name of her deceased husband furiously, and Jim had been able to make out that she had forgotten what his father had sounded like and what his cologne smelled like. She had cried until there were no tears left to cry, then had moaned his name deep into the night. It was the first of many similar outbursts that James Kirk had witnessed.

No way in fucking hell was he going to let himself fall that far. He needed to terminate it before it began. But how?

Memories crashed over him like a tsunami, unearthing the tiniest little nuance memories and miscellaneous images from where they were meticulously stored in the compartments of his mind to the forefront of his consciousness. The caves were mere feet away when Kirk stopped abruptly and dropped to his knees. This was the end. The final leg of the race of his life. He looked quickly to his sides before walking on his knees to the blood bush. He vaguely remembered saying that the crimson buses native to Tarsus proved to be perfect cover for…

Ah ha!

The crimson revolver. It was a little rusted, and the blood that once stained it was mostly gone, but it appeared to be in working condition. He unhooked the cylinder and span it, then clicked it back into place and pulled the trigger. There were no cartridges, but everything appeared to be in working order. A saving grace. He pressed the barrel to his lips and reached into his not-ripped pocket, praying to every deity that it was still there.

His fingers touched cold metal and he sighed happily. He pulled out the cartridge and smiled. It had been a present for his last birthday. A bullet with his name on it, they had joked: JAMES had been cut sloppily into the side with a sharp blade. It wouldn't fly straight, but there would be no need to aim for where he planned on putting it.

He popped open the cylinder and slid the cartridge in. He span the cylinder out of habit before closing it and slipping it under the hem of his pants. Rising swiftly, he continued on his way.

"Come on guys." He said with feigned indifference as he entered the hiding cave. "We've got work to do." The seven remaining survivors, excluding himself and Jamie, slowly exited the caves, as it attending their own excicutions. The group walked solemnly, arranged coincidently by age, the rear brought up by Kevin Riley, cradling the infant child in his arms. Kevin bumped his shoulder into Kirk's side and the older boy placed a hand on his shoulder as they walked together. Kevin tilted his head to the side and took in Kirk's full profile.

"What's that?" He asked, tilting his small head towards the weapon on his person.

"You know."

"…What's it for?"

"You know."

Kevin's eves widened as realization dawned on him. "You can't…"

"I can, and I will."

"But…Why?"

Jim looked down, slightly ashamed, and let the question go unanswered.

They arrived minutes later and took their respective places; Jim at the very peak of the hill, with the others surrounding him in order of ruling status. He exhaled, and raised a fist to his heart. The others mimicked him and mumbled under their breaths "the dead be dead and let death claim them"

Step 4: Remove the clothing of the dead, and cut of as much hair as possable in one handful.

James went up and down the rows, and one by one, sloppily chopped the hair off of the dead, tying it into knots, then handing it to the nearest bystander. He ripped the cloth off their bodies with his bare hands—what he considered a respectful gesture. They kept these items as physical reminders of their lost friends, and as tokens to return to their families if and when they ever returned to earth.

When he reached the corpse of the olive-skinned alien he had learned to trust with his life, he felt a lump begin to well in his throat.. Unlike the others, who had died of either suffocation or burns, he had been cut open violently, his waist barely attached to the rest of his body the gash was so deep. His entire torso was died a deep green with his blood, and his shirt was glued to his chest. Jim Slipped his knife under the collar and begin to pull it away from the aliens' flesh with an almost spatula-like motion.

The noise of tearing flesh as it released from its position was sickening. Thankfully, his pants came off much more easily.

He tried to avoid looking at the once-muscular chest of his dear friend and keep to his forever-shut eyes. He frowned, and lifted the blade to his friends' forehead, carving his name into his flesh as he had been told was custom on his home planet. It was sloppy, and the characters were all wrong, but it was better then nothing. Jim placed his thumbs on his eyes and whispered quietly to himself "Veni, Vidi, Vici indeed."

Kirk Pressed his eyes closed as he slid the knife under the deep black hair, severed it, and tied it tightly in on itself. Wrapping the bloodied fabric around the hair, he proceeded to stand, and moved on without looking back. Distraught, he handed it over to young Kevin.

Tears began welling as he kneeled before the final corpse—the corpse of his best, truest friend. He desperately wished that he would open his eyes, begin breathing again, look Kirk in the eyes and smile like it was all one big joke; but sadly, nobody could raise the dead.

There were no clothes left to remove, so James simply bunched up the shoulder-length chocolate locks and sliced it off with a single swipe of his blade. It was soft in Kirks hand, yet cold and lifeless, not at all like it had been the first time Kirk's fingers had tangled into it, their bodies pressed together in fear and longing. The pale hue of the flesh on his face sent shivers down the boys spine. His once red cheeks were white as linen and all of the tiny cuts and scars he had accumulated were much more defined. In all truthfulness, he looked like one of those patchwork Zombies Jim had often saw in old, bad holos. He felt as the skin beneath his eyelids began to moisten, and he bit his lower lip sharply.

"_Are you crying? There's no crying in baseball, Jim. You're too good for crying." _

Even in such a desolate moment, the memory never failed to make him smile. Quoting was one of Jim's favorite ways to keep spirits up, and it had eventually cought on until everyone was doing

Yet he had been right. Not only was there no crying in baseball, but there was no crying on life. It was a waste of bodily fluid and energy. He placed the bundle in the lap of the infant, and stood, turning from the lifeless remains. No crying. No more.

Step 5: Drag the bodies into the graves

This part was easy enough. Each of the survivors—save for the two youngest—helped pull the corpses over the holes. Kirk grabbed his alien friends' hands and another man grabbed his legs; he was almost seven feet tall and weighed two hundred and seventy pounds, much too much for a single man to move. They tossed the corpse with as much force as humanly possible into the grave. By the time the two men had finished, everyone else had completed their tasks as well. Kirk jumped into each of the graves and rolled the bodies onto their backs and folded their arms across their chests like mummified Egyptian pharaohs. HE tried desperately to detach the people he knew from the corpses he prepared for burial, and failed miserably. They were his friends, his family, all he had left. And burying his friends was akin to burying himself. His only consolation was the promise of a shiny bullet in his brain at the end of all of this. It was the silver lining of this ever-so-black cloud.

He sighed. Though it was not specified by any congregation of survivors as the highly regulated burial proceedings, it was customary to say a few words at a funeral. Kirk ran his ringers through his knotted hair and looked at his bare feet. He flexed his toes then looked up, meeting the eyes of each of the remaining 8 individually. "Well, we all know why we're here." He motioned behind him, and one of the young girls stifled a humorless laugh. "And we all know what happened, so there really isn't anything to say about that." He sighed, then, sucking in his anguish, he continued.

"But the men and women who sacrificed themselves this past week deserve a eulogy. Hell, they deserve fucking medals of Honor, but I guess we'll have to make due with what we've got. These people were—are—our brothers and sisters. Our family. Our best friends. Our lovers. Or fuckbuddies, whichever they were. They were…important. Are important. And now, they're gone. I'm not going to give a tear-jerking speech about how much they will be missed. I'm not going to lecture you about how we need to respect the dead. And I'm not going to stand here and break down. I'm just gunna say that death is inevitable. I know it, you know it, and I hope we never forget. Because no matter how often the odds are in your favor, there's always a chance that you can be killed." The congregation let out a collective sob as Kirk slid his hand back to the grip of his revolver.

"I've cheated death so many times," he continued. "That I guess I owe her move lives then I can spare." Fear was visible in his eyes as he spoke, but he did not let it seep into his voice. He needed to show courage in the face of death. He pulled the revolver out and gripped it tightly, pressing the barrel hard against his forehead. "I've taken a loan out at the first-national-bank-of-the-grim-reaper. It's time I paid her back." A bang of thunder punctuated the end of his speech effectively. He straightened his back, cocked his shoulders and held his breath, but didn't close his eyes. He let his vision blur as he pulled the trigger slowly.

Click—swoosh.

He cringed. When he had loaded the weapon, he span the cylinder, and unintentionally instigated a game of Russian Roulette.

He exhaled. There was room for six cartridges in his revolver, one of which had already been passed by. That meant that he had a 1 in 5 shot of the cartridge being in the next slot. However, Jim had the …_uncanny _feeling that the next one was empty as well.

He pulled the trigger again, hoping that for once in his god damned life the odds would be against him.

Click—swoosh.

Biting his lip, he tried again, pressing faster and harder.

Click—swoosh.

Click—Swoosh.

Click—swoosh.

_One left_, he thought as he adjusted the barrel against his flesh. _Please,_ he prayed_, please let it fire. Please let me die. _He slowly pressed down, and could feel the cartridge clicking into place as the cylinder tilted slightly, lining the round up perfectly with barrel.

Time slowed down.

His finger tightened around the trigger at a deathly slow pace, and when finally, finally, finally it was down, he felt it.

_No. _

His lungs tightened as the air he inhaled became chilled like breathing in snow. The flesh on his hand froze, and his grip slipped just a few degrees…

The bang was extremely loud in his ear and was followed soon after with a burning, searing, screaming pain in his forehead. He sobbed loudly, and dropped to his knees in a pitiful heap. The revolver dropped to the ground and his hands flew up to his head. Sticky warmth began to trickle down his forehead and into his lap; onto the weapon, painting it red. His hands were shaking as he felt around where the skin broke. Bone. The tilt of the weapon combined with the proximity to his head had caused a huge chunk of bone and flesh to be ripped from his head, but not killing him. His skull was visible for the world to see, and he was still _breathing. _It was in that moment that James T. Kirk finally gave in.

Another choked sob preceded the onslaught of tears that began welling and pouring down his cheeks. Fuck baseball. Fuck the baby. Fuck the world. Just, fuck _everything_! His barriers fell and his mask cracked; his body crumpled to the ground. Head in his hands, he let himself break open like an egg, and his sticky yellow yolk began to spill all over the cold dirt.

_Why? Why couldn't you have granted me death? Why am I alive? Why do I always __**win**__? _

His questions went unanswered save for the chilling caress of his cheek and the press of the wind's dead lips to his forehead.

He was barely aware of hands, both large and small, helping to support him. Legs dragging through the dirt, Kirk wept. He wept like a small child as what was left of his family murmured words of condolence and comfort much to his discontent. Slowly, he let himself fall into the beautiful oblique silence of unconsciousness. And then the sky opened up, acid falling from the clouds like tears. The dead planet mourned alongside its killer.

***

(A/N: Oh gosh, I'm sooo sorry this took so long! I've had so much going on in school that I haven't had time to just sit an write! And when I finally finished, I printed it out and spent a week editing. I'm sorry if it's stupid, but I can't use any names or I'll ruin my big chapter story that I'm going to start, and I'm nervous about what people will think. I'd love some feedback, especially constructive criticism. I want to know how to do better! I apologise if Jim is really OOC, but he's young and in pain. By the end of the next chapter, he'll be back to his cocky, arrogant, Jimtastic self. Once again, I don't know if Romulans are touch telepaths or not, and I want to know what people think of little Jamie. Too much of a stretch? Her role is still undefined in the big story, so if you dont like her, I can reduce her. Now that I have an idea of how long it will take me to write each chapter, I've decided to put the actual posting of my big story on hold, and will wait until I have atleast the first five chapters written and edited. Also, i apoligise for my spelling, grammar, and any typos you might find. I'm still learning here. o////o

--Toria O.O


	3. The Heart

Woohoo! Finaly! I've had this done for a while, but I wanted to get the next chapter started before I posed. So yeah. I'm not all too happy with this; I'm kinda not good with the whole sappy-lovey-dowy-comforty stuff, so please tell me what you think! Next chapter should be up in a week+ or less. I had originaly planned for this to be the end but well, I don't like to crush my muse, and he wanted to make this have 5 parts. So yeah. I'd realy like some more imput to know what people think, so I can make this better, but apparently, people don't feel like reviewing *shrugs*. Enjoy please!

* * *

The Heart (and how it can be miraculously re-inflated after a painful crushing)

He was awakened by screaming.

Loud, piercing screaming, like a four-year-old watching The Exorcist.

"Hush little bay-bee don't say a word," a tiny voice sang in a soft, broken tone. James was shocked he could even hear the boy over the unidentified wails. "Kevin's gunna buy you a mock-ing-bird." The screams grew louder and the young man's breathing grew heavier. As his memories began to return to him from the bottomless pit of his sleeping mind, he became able to identify the source of the infernal racket. The minor irritation at being awakened in such a crude, loud_, irksome_way was quickly being replaced with panic. Something was wrong. Babies only cried when something was wrong. "An' if that mock-ing-bird don' sing, Kevin's' gunna buy you a dia-mond-ring."

At about the same pace as the horrendous pain began to flood him again, James reached his hand to his head, feeling around the area of his grazing head wound. It was covered in what felt like stark-new gauze. At first, he was disgusted that such valuable material was wasted on his pathetic being, but then remembered sadly that since the recent 'involuntary depletion of staff', resource rations had gotten larger and in consequence, they had opened a new package of bandaging. There was no slight stick as he touched the material, which meant he was no longer bleeding. How long had he been unconscious?

"An' if tha' ring turns into brass," Louder and louder the shreiking grew. Louder and louder and louder. His head was screaming with the searing, burning pain of shaking eardrums. "Kevin's' gunna buy' ya' a look-in glass."

_Make it stop, make it stop! _He thought, barely abel to think a coheisive sentence over the noise. _Why wont she stop crying? _His combined physical and emotional pain was beginning to rip through the fibers of his being. Somehow, he could connect the present situation with not-quiet-nostalgia of his own misspent youth. When he was a child, he used to scream like that, he remembered. When his mother used to hand him off to his grandfather or uncle, he would wail and cry and scream and people used to think there was something wrong with him. But Jim remembered. He _clearly_ remembered that he had just wanted his mother, who sadly, had wanted nothing to do with him.

"An' if tha' look-in glass gets broke,"Kirk opened his eyes and glanced to his left. Little Kevin Riley was rocking the baby back and forth, his face panicked and worrisome. "Kevin's gunna buy you a…a make you a…a trib-ble float."

"an' if that trib-ble float—"

"Kev," Kirk squeaked out in a high-pitched, sqeualish voice, attempting (and failing) to push himself up onto his side. The child paused and turned his head to the older boy.

His eyes lit up. "Jim! We were so worried--"

"Shaddup." Kevin's jaw snapped shut with a visible click. "Gimme t' baybe."

"Buh?"

"M'said, gimme t' baybe." When the child did not move, Kirk began to get frustrated. "Gimme 'er! Now!" Kevin shot up and clutched the infant to his chest as he approached his wounded friend. "Jus' put'er…on mah chest." Riley did as he was told, and almost as soon as she came into contact with his bare skin, the baby stopped crying. The two boys sighed, and the baby giggled at the rise and fall of Kirk's chest.

"How did you do that?"

James shrugged, then cringed as another, slightly more terrifying high-pitch wail shook his eardrum. "Kevin? What's going on in here? Why did she stop…oh!" The nurse rubbed her eyes and blinked before accepting the sight before her. "Kirk, are you alright?" She asked, her tone slightly less menacing and in a hushed whisper. The man nodded once out of habit, then thought better of it and shook his head. "Too bad, you suicidal jackass." She hissed. "The little angel's been screaming ever since you went under! Mother fuck, what were you thinking? That we'd all be just peachy after you were gone? That we would all be rescued and live happily ever after?"

"You didn' try-ta stop m''"

"We didn't think the bullet would actually fire! How many times have we all sat in a circle and betted on your life before? Better yet, out of those, how many times did the bullet go off?"

"Countin' this lass one, one out a for-hundred n' seventy-do."

"Exactly!" The poorly composed nurse took a deep breath before continuing in a softer tone. "What were you thinking? Do you know how much we need you? How much we love you? Kirk, you're our world. We'd all run 'round like headless chickens without you."

"I dunno," James replied. "I…I dunno. I guess I just…_miss_them." She looked at him with that 'are you kidding me?' look that only she seemed to be able to successfully perform and he looked down, ashamed. "I mean, I spnt 'lmost my hole life makin' sure dey, _he,_was safe. Now that ther' gone, I guess I don't realy 'ave a purpose 'nymore." He looked down at the baby resting over his heart and placed a hand on her tiny head. She was so small.

He hated her. He hated her so much. Almost as much as he loved her, which was a lot.

The nurse and Kevin shared a knowing glance and she sighed, then sat cross-legged near his head. Slowly, she unwrapped the bandaging on his head and poured hard liquor over it. It stung badly, but Kirk managed to catch a few wayward drops on his tongue, smiling at the burn they brought as they trailed town his throat. As his nurse re-wrapped his head unnecessarily tightly, he ran his fingers through the fuzz on Jamie's head. When she finished, the nurse slapped Jim hard in the face, leaving a bright red mark. He recoiled slightly, and rubbed the mark until it cooled.

"You idiot," She said simply, quietly. "You say you have no purpose, nothing to live for. Well, what would you call this?" She gestured towards the baby resting quietly on his chest. "She depends on you Jimmy. You're her world. And now, she's your everything."

The man contemplated this. Slowly it began to make sence. She was a part of them, thir Deoxyribonucleic acid, their legacy. Perhaps it was his job to help the legacy live on?

Gradually, like the sun pushing its light through an open window on a rainy day, everything became clear. The pain of the loss of his sisters and brothers was still as sharp as knives, but suddenly, it didn't matter as much. He was able to detach himself again like he had before _that_ _**disastrous**_ escapade, because he had a focus.

Slowly, Kirk found himself smiling. He moved his hand down from Jamie's head and onto her back. She sighed with content and snuggled closer to him. His resolve reborn, he was graced with a new sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to get them off that god-forsaken planet after all.

* * *

Still waiting on the whole Romulan telepathy thing, and I can't start the big story until I know. Somebody please tell me!

Review please! I FEED on reviews. FEED ON THEM.


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